


To Silver Glass

by AutumnHobbit



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Faramir and Denethor are mentioned, Gen, I creep myself out with my death stuff sometimes, Into The West is an awesome song, So., but Tolkien's deaths are really beautiful, feels.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 23:38:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnHobbit/pseuds/AutumnHobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir reflects on life and home as he lies dying in Amon Hen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Silver Glass

How had it come to this?

Boromir still wasn’t sure.

It all seemed to flash by; his father’s insistent rambling about Isildur's Bane. His demand that Boromir bring it to Gondor. Bidding his Faramir farewell. The trip, seemingly endless, through countless wilderness paths. The Council, and his frustration with their inability to see sense. The halfling lad’s sudden outburst of courage. The Fellowship assembling. The failed attempt to cross Caradhras. Moria. Mithrandir's fall. Lothlorien, and the strange combination of being comforted and unsettled, exposed. The Argonath. His argument with Aragorn. His mind growing more and more unstable, the Ring filling his thoughts more and more every day. Confronting Frodo. Frodo disappearing as Boromir somehow dragged his mind back to sense. His horror at what he’d done. Searching for Frodo, until the crashing, the screeches of wildlife, and the snarls and thudding of orcs came to his ears.

After that, his only concern was to find the others. To help as best he could. He owed them that much.

Somehwere nearby, he could hear the younger hobbits shouting, though at what, he could not tell. He hurried up the hill, bounding over to see the two lads being closed in upon by at least twenty orcs, the largest he’d ever seen. Frodo, and the others, were nowhere to be seen.

He banished the recent events from his head as he drew his sword. Speed was of the utmost necessity. He leapt in front of the lads, who were paralyzed by fear, and began hacking desperately at the orcs. The halflings, as if encouraged by his appearance, drew their own small swords and helped as best they could, adding their throwing skills to the fray.

He still did not know how it happened.

One moment, he was fighting as hard as he could. The next, it struck, hard and fast and knocking the breath from his lungs. Pain stabbed him. The halflings stared in horror.

But he pulled back up, and kept on. An orc fell with its throat slashed. Another dropped with its leg cut out from under it. He stabbed through it as it lay.

And the second hit.

This one tore through him with searing heat. He felt blood soaking his jerkin. He couldn’t breathe. He sank down and gasped desperately. Still the lads stood, their terror and sorrrow clear on their faces, looking...and the realization hit him harder than the shafts that pierced his flesh.

Like Faramir.

The same face he had seen so many times; staring up at him from their mothers arms, from where he hid under the blankets after a nightmare, from where he lay, face pressed against his brother’s chest, after their mother’s death, after their father had abandoned him. And from where he had gazed up at his brother with an intensity, as if memorizing him forever.

That same face that, he knew now, as he gazed down at the orcs’ feet tramping through the dead leaves, at the three shafts that protruded from his ribs, he would never see again.

He could hear the hobbit’s cries as they were dragged off, as they struggled, but he was powerless to do anything. He hung there, on his knees, too numb to think, to comprehend anything but the pain swelling from his chest to the rest of his body.

The sounds of the snarls of the orcs, the stomping as they ran past, the crunch of leaves, the distant roar of the falls, his own gasps, all blended into a cacophany before giving way to the blood pounding in his ears.

He faintly, through the growing haze surrounding him, saw feet approaching him even as the other orcs ran off. He raised his head and glared at the beast. He refused to go quietly to these monsters, the same ones that had killed so many of his people. It drew back another grimy, black-feathered arrow, clearly meaning to make certain that he went down this time.

Let it do so. He cared not.

The yell was loud enough to draw him out of the fog, if only for a minute. Aragorn crashed through the trees and threw himself on the orc. They fell away, slashing and hacking with a vengeance at each other. Once they were out of sight, he crawled away, to find his sword and try to help Aragorn. But when he found it, sitting at the base of a tree, he barely had the strength to wrap his fingers around the hilt, and when he tried to lift it, he collapsed. The sword went one way, and he the other, and he slammed into the tree, his back screaming in pain. He slid down, too exhausted to move, to do anything, other than to stare up at the sun through the trees and listen to the wind through the roaring in his mind.

How long he stayed there, he did not know. He felt, much to his horror, that he was fading, becoming incoherent as time went on. He was roused from it at the sound of feet running yet again. He braced himself.

But it was Aragorn, running back towards him, blood on his face and in his mouth and a couple nasty cuts on his arms. He dropped down in front of Boromir, obviously looking him over to see how bad it was. He knew that it was a waste of time, so he choked out, “They took them...they took the little ones!” Despair washed through him at the words. He had failed them. All of them.

“Stay still,” Aragorn said breathlessly. He was still trying damage control, though whether for Boromir’s comfort or his own, Boromir could not tell. He kept on, “Frodo. Where is Frodo?”

Aragorn was silent for a moment before he said, sadly but resignedly, “I let Frodo go.”

“You did what I could not. I tried to take the Ring from him. I am sorry. I have paid.” he gasped. “Forgive me. I did not see. I have failed you all..” he clasped Aragorn’s shoulder desperately.

“No, Boromir. You fought bravely.” Aragorn said, shaking his head, the pain clear in his gaze. Here was one who might be able to understand. “You have kept your honor.”

He reached for one of the arrows. “Leave it!” Boromir hissed, with more vehemence than he thought he had.

Aragorn looked back up at him with the most sorrowful look he had ever seen on his features. If he felt powerless, Boromir felt worse. Here he lay, dying, far from home. Faramir would be left, broken-hearted and alone, with their father, expected to lead the armies of Gondor himself, and what would become of his brother on the battlefield? What would become of Minas Tirith? Of his men? Of his whole world?

“It is over,” he whispered harshly. “The world of Men will fall...and all will come to Darkness...and my city to ruin.” As he spoke, he could see it, in his mind’s eye, as clear as day; the White Tower of Ecthelion come crashing down in a shower of stones, it’s silver banner’s torn and bloodied, flames consuming the white tree, his father’s anger and his brother’s fear and sorrow. He shook, and not from shock.

Aragorn swallowed hard. “I do not know what strength is in my blood....but I swear to you I will not let the White City fall.” Boromir blinked, wondering if he was drifting off again, but the words rang forth with utter conviction. With nobility. “Nor our people fail.” That man was revealed in his friend again...the kingliness befitting the Heir of Elendil. The promise that was founded in the stone, blood, and dreams of an age. And with that, suddenly the raging storm going on in his mind, in his soul itself, was calmed. In place of the destruction of the world, the images were of beloved things; his mother, clad in her blue and silver mantle. His father, back when he still smiled. His little brother’s face as they met for the first time. And again over the years; sitting beside Mithrandir, reading in between listening with fascination to the tales of their fathers. The pride on his face after he slew his first orc. His smile as they drank, that last day they had been together. The clear ringing of silver trumpets in the evening breeze. Glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver.

_Home._

“Our people...our people....” he whispered, almost in awe. All of it. It was so great. More than he could ever have wished for. He was so, so grateful to be called one of them. A man of Gondor. Boromir, son of Denethor, brother of Faramir, one of the Fellowship of the Ring.

_Thank you. For it all. For the chance._

He reached for his sword. Aragorn reached for it and placed it in his grasp, helping him to place it on his chest. “I would have followed you, my brother.”

The image of Aragorn, quiet tears running down his face, like a king of carven stone, began to fade.

“My captain.”

It was as if a cloud had been drawn back from the sky, revealing all it’s glory behind.

“My king.”

Through the silver glass, he saw the country, far and green, beneath a swift sunrise, where every day was like an age in the lives of men. And the voice that had sung the world into being, saying the words that set his spirit at peace.

“Well done, Son of Gondor. Well done.”

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously do not own any characters/happenings.
> 
> Please feel free to let me know what you think. :)


End file.
